


How to...

by flammable_grimm_pitch



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, England (Country), F/M, London, M/M, Roommates, Social Media, Strangers to Lovers, Twitter, YouTube, YouTuber Simon Snow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:54:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27431602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flammable_grimm_pitch/pseuds/flammable_grimm_pitch
Summary: Simon runs a 'how to' channel on YouTube where he teaches viewers how to do things that parents are meant to teach you. University student Baz Pitch wants to get the hell out of his parents' house, so he answers Simon's online ad seeking a new flatmate.Communication issues! Bickering about whose turn it is to clean the bathroom! Simon realizing he likes a boy (it's Baz)! All our fave 'and they were roommates' tropes.
Relationships: Penelope Bunce/Shepard, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 60
Kudos: 225





	1. Find a Flatmate

**Author's Note:**

> I've been obsessed with Youtuber AUs lately for some reason. Not sure how frequently I'll update, because I have a few other works on the go. Enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon meets his potential new flatmate.

**How to…Find a Flatmate**  
67,484 views • July 12, 2020  
**how-to-simon-snow** || 102.4k subscribers

_“Hey folx, Simon Snow here. Welcome to another video!_

_“As many of you may know, Penny, who has been my flatmate for the last two years, moved out of our flat and in with her boyfriend across town. So this week, I’ve got a huge task ahead of me — finding a new flatmate — and I wanted to share about the process with you. With the new school year starting up, some of you may be looking for a place to live, so hopefully this will be informative and helpful.”_

* * * * *

**Baz**

“What’s all this for?” I ask, pointing towards the camera equipment arranged around the in the corner of the sitting room. It looks much too professional for casual recording purposes. Perhaps it’s a bit bold to be grilling a guy about everything in his home when you’ve only just met him, but if I’m meant to live here, I want to know if I’ve got a flatmate who films loud porn scenes or something of that sort.

“Oh, um…” the adorable freckled mess in front of me — Simon — says, scratching at the back of his neck. He needs a haircut, and his lightwash jeans are grass-stained and ripped open at both knees. “I make how-to videos, so that’s my stationary set-up. It’s so I can do bits of narration, and, um, video diary bits.”

Not a cam boy, then.

“So you’re a YouTuber?” I raise a sceptical eyebrow. He’s not got mirrors or makeup on his desk, so he’s probably not a beauty vlogger, and though there’s an Xbox set up beside the small flatscreen, he doesn’t have the under-eye bags of an obsessive, all-night gamer.

“Not for a living,” he says quickly, “Obviously I don’t make enough money on YouTube to support myself entirely if I need a flatmate to afford this place.” He waves a hand around the open-concept flat. It isn’t a complete dump, I’ll say, though my father would be appalled to learn that I’m strongly considering renting here for duration of the school year.

“What _do_ you do, then?” I ask He’s got a muscular body, so if he’s not a gym rat, he must work some sort of manual labour job — construction, or in a warehouse, perhaps.”

“I work for City Gardens doing landscaping work, mostly,” he says, which explains the grass stains and the tan lines peaking out from beneath the short sleeves of his t-shirt. “Not the most glamorous job in the world, but it pays the bills, and I like it well enough.”

“Lovely,” I hum, stepping into the kitchen. “I work a few shifts a week at the university library, and can provide you proof of employment if you need.”

“Why would I need that?” Simon asks, his brows drawn together in confusion. His lack of experience in vetting a potential roommate is appalling, but also somehow endearing.

“Don’t you want to ensure I can pay my share of the rent?” I inquire quizzically. “I could be telling you a load of rubbish, and unless you ask for proof of employment, like a recent paystub or a note from my employer, you might be lotting yourself with some freeloader.

“Oh,” he says, nodding slowly as he processes my little speech. “I suppose you’re right. But, um, if you say you have a job, I believe you.”

I’ve spent all of 10 minutes with Simon Snow, and I’m already infatuated with him — with the quirk of his lips as he smiles, with the blush that crawled up his neck when I asked about his camera equipment, with the heavy bob of his Adam’s apple when he swallows. I want to lick this man like a lollypop, and I bet he’d make the most obscene noises if I sucked at the skin of his throat…

Fuck, I _have_ to find somewhere else to live. The last thing I need this year is to have my heart crushed by a gorgeous, clueless, infuriatingly heterosexual flatmate.

“I’m gay,” I tell him flat-out, sure that it will sabotage his initial impression of me. “Would you have a problem living with a gay man?”

“Um, I’ve never lived with one before,” he says, worrying his lower lip between his teeth, “But I don’t think so. I feel kind of stupid for asking, but is there something different about gay guys than straight guys that I should know about?”

“Yes, we have a set of antennae that pop out when we’re looking to pull,” I say, rolling my eyes at his ridiculous answer. “Helps us figure out who’s safe to approach, and who will kick the shit out of us for looking at them the wrong way.”

Simon blinks at me in honest-to-god confusion.

“I’m joking, Snow,” I sigh. “It was a joke. We’re exactly the same, you and I, except that I occasionally go on dates with men.”

“Yeah, um, of course,” he says, chuckling awkwardly. “So, uh, do you want to see the rest of the flat? We’d have to share a bathroom, and the second bedroom’s small, but it worked well enough for Penny. Same size as my room, really.”

I follow him down the carpeted hallway, and he flicks a switch outside the first door on the right, illuminating a recently renovated bathroom. There’s a shower with a frosted glass sliding door, a toilet tucked away behind a curtain at the far end (presumably so that two people could use the bathroom at once), and a sink with hardly any counter space. There’s a ceramic cup holding a toothbrush with fraying bristles and a matching soap dispenser, and that’s all he has sitting on the faux-marble countertop.

“Could I have a peak under the sink?” I ask politely. “Just want to get an idea of storage space.” There aren’t any drawers in the unit, just two hinged doors that hide the pipes beneath the sink.

“Sure,” Simon shrugs, leaning against the doorframe. “S’mostly cleaning supplies under there. If you need more space, I’ve been planning to build a shelf sort of thing to hang on the wall. Could have it done by the time you’d move in.”

His assessment is correct; there isn’t much space under the sink at all. It’s nice to know he’s got glass cleaner and toilet scrub, though. A few of the places I’ve looked at probably hadn’t been cleaned since the tenant originally moved in. There are a few stray whiskers in the bowl of the sink from the last time Simon shaved, but otherwise, the bathroom is very tidy.

“I could just buy a shelf, if you’d be willing to install it,” I tell him. “IKEA probably has a cheap one that would match the cabinet colours nicely.” Simon snorts at the word ‘IKEA’, but recovers quickly.

“No, you don’t need to _buy_ something,” he assures me. “I’m into woodworking, so it’d be no problem for me to just purchase a bit of timber and put something together.”

I stare at him blankly, because what twenty-something is _“into woodworking”?_

“Here, I’ll show you some of the things I’ve built,” he offers, stepping back to let me out of the bathroom. I follow him into a bedroom on the left side of the hall, which looks to be the room his previous flatmate recently vacated. “The bedroom is furnished, as I said in the Gumtree ad,” Simon explains, tucking his thumbs in his trouser pockets, “But you’ll need a mattress. Penny said it would be gross to make someone use hers, and I won’t repeat the rest of what she said, because I’d rather not think about it again.”

“That’s fine,” I agree, hiding a smirk, because I can imagine what her argument might have been. I’d rather not use a mattress full of someone else’s dead skin cells, or stained with things that might show up under a CSI blacklight. His friend seems like a smart woman.

The bedroom is small, as Simon indicated, and I’m immediately charmed by the furniture. It’s a matching set made from reclaimed wood and stained dark brown, and includes a bed frame, nightstand, desk and chair, dresser, tall bookshelf, and a set of decorative floating honeycomb shelves above the bed.

“Wait — _you_ built all of this?” I ask, meeting his eyes. He flushes with bashful pride, but nods that yes, these are his creations. “It’s…very nice.” I want to say more, but I don’t know enough about woodworking to provide any meaningful feedback. Could this be what his YouTube videos are about?

“Thanks,” he shrugs nonchalantly. “We were both proper skint when we first moved out, but I had access to timber and tools through work, so I built a set for each of us.”

The walls are painted a light cream colour, and it looks as though Simon’s done some recent touch-ups, as there are a few places where the paint is a bit shinier than the rest of the coat. Above the desk hangs a framed print of a map of central London, but instead of streets or neighbourhoods, names of literary classics make up the shape of the city, the meandering Thames cutting a black line through its centre. Nice of his flatmate to leave a bit of art for the next tenant. Definitely adds some character to the room.

When I walk over to glance out the window on the far wall, which overlooks the street, I see that there’s a small supermarket just across the way, bookended by a florist and a quaint little bakery, none of which belong to any chains I recognize. Despite the bustle of people and vehicles outside, it isn’t terribly noisy.

“This is perfect,” I declare, turning back towards Simon. “I’m very interested, but I’ll give you some time to consider your options. Just, er, ring me up when you’ve decided.”

I know I’m setting myself up to fall in love with a pretty boy and have my heart broken, but Simon is just so…just so _much,_ that I can’t pass up the opportunity to bask in the warmth of his presence. That sounds dramatic, I know, but everything about him is golden and warm and bright. I want to know everything about him, and I want to hear it all in the slow, low rumble of his voice.

“I don’t need time to consider,” he tells me confidently. “You can have the room if you’d like it. I’ll get the paperwork to add you to the lease, and have it for you to sign by the end of the week, if that works for you?”

“If you’re certain,” I acquiesce, holding out a hand to seal the deal. Really, I just want to feel the rough skin of his palm again, but no one needs to know that. He grasps my hand firmly, squeezes, and holds on for just a hair too long.

“I am,” he smiles.

* * * * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Profile pic for the Tweet is, of course, from the Wayward Son cover by the amazing Kevin Wada.


	2. Make a Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A leaky sink brings Simon and Baz closer together.

**How to…Fix a Leaky Sink**  
85,998 views • August 17, 2020  
**how-to-simon-snow** || 114.3k subscribers

_*camera is focused on Simon’s face, but someone is speaking in the background*_

**Offscreen voice (OV):** “Uh, Simon? We’ve got a problem!” 

**Simon:** “I’m just filming a video, can it wait a few minutes?” 

**OV:** “Not really! The sink’s sprung a leak and it’s spraying everywhere!” 

**Simon:** “Okay, be right there!” 

**Simon to camera:** “This is actually a great opportunity for a video! Alright, folx, change of plan — guess we’re going on a field trip to the bathroom. And you might even get to meet my new flatmate!” 

* * * * * 

**Baz**

Leave it to Simon to choose the perfect moment to walk in with a GoPro strapped to his forehead. I’m standing in front of the sink with a towel slung ‘round my hips, as I’ve just stepped out of the shower, in a growing puddle of water. 

“Oh, you’re…not dressed,” says Captain Obvious, staring at me with wide eyes and mouth agape. 

“Well spotted, Snow,” I snark. “But please, continue staring if you think it’ll fix the sink. I’ve all day, you know.” 

“Sorry, sorry, yes, let’s have a look at the sink,” he apologizes profusely, flushing bright red. I take a few steps back and manage to kick over Penny’s emergency box of sanitary napkins that I tried to save from the deluge, but I think she’s out of luck, because the box’s cardboard is all soggy, and I don’t think the plastic wrappers were meant to protect the napkins from a torrential downpour. I make a mental note to put them in the trash and pick up a new box when I stop by the chemist for my meds. 

“I’d say that loo roll is probably done for, too,” I tell him, watching with quiet amusement as Simon pulls out a water-logged package of Andrex. The puppy printed on the plastic looks sadder than usual, like it’s been kicked. I add this to my list as well, because there’s few things I hate more than having to fish around in the bin beside the toilet for the least-used bit of tissue to wipe my arse with. Thankfully, this has happened only once since I’ve lived with Simon, and only because the man doesn’t seem to understand that when you’ve finished off a roll, you’re meant to replace it with a new one. 

Simon gracelessly shoves all of the bottled cleaning supplies onto the floor, and I’m relieved to see that they’ve all been closed properly. You never know with Simon. Last week, he binned the cap for the milk before the jug was even empty. 

“Why’s there an ice cream pail under the sink?” I dare to ask, immediately regretting my curiosity. 

“It’s for sick-up,” he says, as though this should be obvious. When he sees my pinched expression, he elaborates with, “Y’know, to keep by your bed when you’re feeling a bit peaky?” 

“I absolutely do _not_ know,” I tell him with a sniff. 

“Posho,” he murmurs under his breath. I choose not to take offence, because he’s not wrong. I’ve been avoiding telling my father and stepmother about my new living arrangements because I know they’ll have a fit if they see the place. I’ve also avoided telling them that I have a flatmate, because my father would have wanted to run a criminal records check on Simon before I signed the lease. 

“So, can you tell what’s wrong with it?” I wonder, adjusting my towel so it won’t slip off. “I thought I had maybe dripped all over the floor after my shower, but then I saw that it was leaking from under the cupboard.” 

“Are the taps off?” he asks, and I reach over him to ensure I turned them all the way off after brushing my teeth. 

“Yes.” 

“Alright, so that means it’s coming from one of these,” he explains, even though I can’t see what ‘these’ are. For the first time ever, I find myself curious to learn about plumbing repair, if only because it means I’ll get to be close to Simon. 

“Would you mind if I got dressed so that I can have a look as well?” I inquire, prepared for him to tell me to just piss off. I’ll likely be more of a nuisance than a help, because I haven’t even the most basic repair skills. 

“Sure!” Simon says, withdrawing his head from beneath the sink. He beams up at me like he’s never wanted anything more than to teach me how to fix a dripping pipe. “On your way back, bring a few towels from the linen cupboard so we can mop up this mess, will you, please?” 

Back in my room, I towel myself off as best I can, making sure to squeeze the water from my hair so I won’t get my shirt all wet. I throw on a pair of joggers and a t-shirt because I’ve not got anything important happening until this evening. Simon is in a pair of basketball shorts and a ratty shirt with the sleeves cut off, so I figure comfortable clothes are probably a good choice. From the linen cupboard, I grab a few beach towels, not wanting to ruin any of the good new bath towels Penny bought for Simon as a parting gift. 

“Will these do?” I wonder, presenting the stack in the bathroom doorway. From the toolbox on the floor and the flashlight balanced precariously on the edge of the counter, I gather that he went on an errand of his own while I was gone. He’s also gotten rid of his ridiculous GoPro head strap, but there’s an indent along his forehead where the band pressed against his skin. Cute. 

“Yeah, those are great,” he agrees, snatching the yellow SpongeBob towel from the top and slapping it down, still folded, beneath his knees. The next one he unfolds and uses it to sop up the bottom of the cupboard below the sink, on top of which goes the sick-up bucket to catch the leaking water. Every object has multiple purposes when you live in a small flat and are low on expendable income, I’ve learned, like how a hardback book can be used as a little lap-table for eating in front of the TV, or resting your laptop on so you don’t burn your legs when it heats up. 

“Okay, so come on down here and I’ll show you where the problem is,” he tells me, waving to me eagerly. He scoots to the right so I’ll have some space to kneel down as well. With the beam of the flashlight, he gestures to several bits of piping and tells me what they’re called. I probably won’t remember much of it, but I do appreciate the thoroughness of his explanation. 

“So because the leak is still going when the water is off, that tells me that we should be looking at the water supply valves, where the water pressure is constant, instead of the drainage piping where there’s only pressure when the tap is running.” He points to two circular valves and the accompanying pipes fitted to the wall. “First thing we’ll try is tightening the retention nut, which often just wears out over time with use of the fixture.” 

Simon grabs a wrench, hands me the flashlight to hold, and sets to work on one of the valves. When the leak stops, Simon lets out a sigh of relief. 

“Oh, thank god,” he says with a slight laugh. “I was pretty sure that would fix it, but if there had been a crack in the pipe itself, I might have had to call the landlord to replace the whole system, and that’s a bloody headache.” 

“Isn’t that what a landlord is supposed to do, though?” I query, earning a full-on belly laugh from my inappropriately gorgeous flatmate. 

“Good one, Baz,” he says, clapping a hand to my shoulder. “A helpful landlord. I’ll have to tell that one to Penny. She’ll get a kick out of it.” 

“I thought you worked in landscaping, not plumbing,” I say, skimming past my unanswered question. “How do you know this sort of thing?” Simon’s face falls, and I try immediately to take back what I’ve said. “Doesn’t really matter, I was just curious.” 

Simon rolls his weight from his knees back to the balls of his feet, so he’s squatting on the floor instead of kneeling, and sets to work soaking up the rest of the water. He’s quiet for a minute or two, long enough that I debate getting up and leaving him alone. I can’t think of how my words could have been construed as offensive, which means I’ve touched on something he doesn’t like to talk about, something painfully personal. 

“I, uh, grew up in care,” he says eventually, avoiding my eyes as he speaks. “I got in fights with older boys a lot of the time, so I was usually placed in homes where I was the oldest kid. Had to be the responsible one most of the time, watching after the little’uns, cooking, that sort of thing. Some of my foster parents were better than others. Anyway, one of my foster dads told me I needed to learn some real skills if I was going to make it anywhere in life, so I went with him to work a lot, even did the first year of my apprenticeship in plumbing under him. Gave it up when they decided I cost too much to keep around, got moved into a group home.” 

All of this makes so much sense. The small scar running through his eyebrow, and the one along his jawline. The cauliflower ears, probably from getting in punch ups with other kids. The way he disappeared into his head when someone shouted at him (for no reason) in the Tesco line last week, his gaze blank and empty, not hearing or processing a single word. 

“And was he…one of the good ones?” I ask, swallowing hard. “The plumber?” Simon shakes his head. 

“Not really,” he admits, chewing at a bit of skin hanging from his lip. His lips are perpetually chapped, to the point where I’ve considered slipping a tube of Burt’s Bees into his lunch kit before work. I’d still kiss him, chapped lips or not. 

“Not really?” I repeat softly. He doesn’t owe me anything, of course he doesn’t, but I can’t help my curiosity. _Tell me everything, Simon. I want to know you._

“Knocked me around when he was pissed, called me names, that sort o’ thing,” he murmurs, shrugging it off as if it were nothing, _normal_ , even. “Better me than the kids, though. I was older; I could take it.” 

“I’m sorry.” Not sorry that I asked, but that he lived through that. A ghost of a smile crosses his face, and I know he understood me. 

“What’s done is done,” he says simply, smiling in such a way that I know this thread of conversation is over. We both stand up and head for the sitting room, because it’s weird to stand in the bathroom and talk if there’s no reason to be there. “Sink’s fixed. And it’s Saturday, so they’ve probably got those scones I like down at the bakery. Want to pop over for lunch?” 

“Those scones you ‘like’,” I scoff,. “You’re in love with them. You want to marry them. You’d happily spend the rest of your days with those scones if you could. I think that’s a bit more than ‘like’. And,” I say, trying my best to seem supportive, “That blonde girl who works the front counter fancies you, I’m sure of it.” 

“Ha, that’s not likely,” Simon snorts, brushing off my comment. 

“What do you mean?” I ask, crossing my arms. “She’s constantly flirting with you every time we go in. Barely even glances my way.” Between my collection of floral collared shirts and the eyeliner I wear most days, she’s probably just assumed (correctly) that I haven’t any interest in women, and as such, ignored me as much as possible. 

“She’s just not…my type,” he says slowly, considering his words carefully. 

“And what _is_ your type?” I inquire evenly. I don't want to come across as overeager, even though I’d desperately like to hear him say something like “Posh blokes with good hair and homophobic fathers”. 

“Still working that out,” he shrugs, shooting me a boyish grin that makes my heart beat a little too fast. “She looks a lot like my last girlfriend, though, and I’m not, uh…not keen on repeating that experience.” 

Colour me intrigued. Simon only ever talks about two friends — Penny, of course, and her boyfriend Shepard, who’s American, and a Fox Mulder-type conspiracy theorist, or so I’m told. I’ve never heard mention of an ex-girlfriend, and from the hesitancy in Simon’s voice, I’d guess I’m not about to hear more about her anytime soon. Perhaps once I’ve gotten to know Penny a bit better, I could ask her. 

“Well, bakery girl or not,” I say, relieved to hear that bakery girl hasn’t got a shot with him, “I’m saying yes to pastries for lunch.” 

* * * * * 

“We’ve already got bread at home, Baz,” Simon argues, effectively cancelling my request for a loaf of sourdough at the bakery counter. “Get some of those berry tartlets you like instead, or muffins to eat for breakfast next week.” 

“Get your own baked goods,” I tell him, “I’ll get whatever I feel like. I’m a grown man, and I’ll buy as much bread as I like.” 

Bakery Girl is smiling at us over the counter much too genuinely for my tastes. I thought she’d be devastated after Simon politely declined her request for his mobile number, but clearly she’s got something on her mind that I’m not privy to. 

“We’ll take, um — Baz, how many of these tartlets do you want, four? Six? Six, please,” he decides before I can answer, pointing at the cream cheese tartlets topped with slices of kiwi, strawberries, blackberries, and raspberries. “And a loaf of the sourdough, because otherwise I’ll be washing the dishes myself tonight. And…let’s say a half-dozen of the sour cherry scones, for good measure.” 

“You guys are so cute,” Bakery Girl says as she pops the scones into a brown paper bag and hands them over to Simon. As soon as she’s spoken, I freeze in place, my wide eyes locking on Simon as I wait for his reaction. She’s just assumed that we’re _together._ From my personal experience, straight men aren’t keen on having people think they’re gay. 

“Thanks,” Simon says cheerily, peering into his bag with hungry eyes, Bakery Girl’s comment having gone right over his head. “Let’s do two of the cinnamon rolls as well, please. You like those, Baz, don’t you?” He glances up at me, still smiling like the oblivious idiot he is. 

“Sure,” I nod, mechanically returning his grin. 

It should be illegal to want this boy as much as I do. 

* * * * * 

Late in the evening, I find Simon at his desk in the sitting room, running through video clips on his laptop. He’s got a pair of headphones on so the sound won’t be a nuisance to me, and when I glance at the screen, he’s watching some of the GoPro footage from this morning. The video is focused on me, eyebrow raised, clad in towel that barely reaches my knees, with drops of water still clinging to my skin. I have to admit, I look good as hell. 

Simon is replaying the same 10 second clip over and over again, but I can’t sort out why. My mouth is moving, but I can’t remember exactly what I had said to him. There’s a funny little smile playing across his lips. 

“Got something good there, Snow?” I ask, startling him. He slams his laptop shut faster than a teenager whose grandmother has just walked in on him watching a dirty video. His guilty expression has me very, _very_ curious. 

“Baz!” he yelps, surprised. “Jesus, how long have you been standing there?” 

“Just a few seconds,” I shrug, pretending to investigate my cuticles as I think about how I should respond to this very interesting development. Snow is watching videos of me half-naked and _smiling_ about it. That has to mean something, right? “What are you working on?” 

“Oh, um, just trying to see if there’s anything I can actually use for a video about fixing the sink, or if I should just, uh…scrap that idea and go back to my original plan.” 

“Why would you make a video about fixing the sink?” I ask, sprawling out on the sofa beside his desk. “I thought you did woodworking videos.” 

“Some of my videos are about woodworking,” he says, staring at his knee as he bounces it over and over. It’s a nervous habit of his, I’ve noticed. I kind of like the idea that something I’ve done has put him in this state, riled him up a bit. “But, uh, my channel is actually more focused on general how-to videos.” 

“Can I see some of your videos?” I make sure to bat my eyelashes when I ask, and the effect is instantaneous. 

“Sure, of course. It’s a public channel, so it’s not like I’m hiding anything,” he says as he hides his laptop screen from me. I give him as serene a smile as I can, even though I’m burning with mischievous energy right now. I want to know why he was staring at that video of me. I want it more than he wanted those fucking scones this afternoon. 

Once he’s pulled up YouTube, he navigates to his channel, and shows me a page of videos that he’s posted. As he mentioned, most of them are instructional: how to create a budget spreadsheet; how to check the oil in a car engine; how to navigate the London Underground. All pretty basic skills for working class people (which I mention because I’ve certainly never had to do things like use a lawnmower or change a tyre). He’s also got a few Q&As, a series on cooking simple meals, and some DIY videos with ‘life hacks’ that seem like they’d actually be helpful instead of ridiculous, like some of the clickbait videos I’ve seen on other channels. 

“What made you decide to do how-to videos?” I ask, checking out the number of views on his videos. For someone with just over 100,000 followers, some of his videos are really popular. 

“I’ve always really struggled to understand instructions when I read them in books, or when people explain them to me verbally,” he says, leaning forward in his desk chair, “But when I can watch someone else, I find it’s a lot easier to sort out. That’s the first part. The second part is that when I left the foster care system, I realized that there were so many things that no one ever taught or explained to me that I was suddenly having to learn all on my own.” 

“Take this one, for example,” he says, pointing to the video on how to tie a tie. “I never had any reason to wear a tie growing up, but when I started needing to attend job interviews, I was a fish out of water. So I went to Youtube, typed in “how to tie a tie,” and it was right there, plain and simple.” 

I’ve certainly taken that skill for granted. My father wears a tie every day, so he taught me at a young age to do it for myself. And I certainly had plenty of occasions on which to practice. 

“So if some of these videos already exist, why did you make them again?” I ask before I can stop myself. “Fuck, that probably sounded so rude. I’m sorry, ignore me.” 

“No, that’s a fair question,” Simon allows. “I do closed captioning and described video for all of my posts, so that people who are deaf, hard of hearing, or visually impaired can follow along as well. Accessibility is really important to me and a lot of my viewers, so I make it a priority.” His face lights up as he remembers something else, and I find myself drawn into his enthusiasm, as I always am. “Oh, and I’ve recently made a connection online with someone who wants to do BSL interpreting for my videos, so that’s brilliant.” 

That’s actually…really fucking cool. 

“Show me a few you’re really proud of,” I request, blinking up at my beautiful roommate like I’m seeing him for the first time. Every new thing I learn about Simon Snow makes me adore him a little bit more, and this is no exception. 

The videos he decides to show me aren’t at all what I would have anticipated. He doesn’t choose the most complex skills or the videos with the most views. Instead, he selects the videos that are closest to his heart: how to navigate the welfare system; what to do when you age out of government care; how to access your birth records. 

“Did you?” I ask, my mouth suddenly feeling quite dry. “Find out about your birth family, I mean?” 

“Yes,” Simon nods, “But, um…” He swallows hard and puts on a brave face. “I can’t talk about it just now.” 

“No, of course,” I say, “I completely understand. Sorry, that was a terribly personal question.” 

“I want to tell you about it,” he promises, setting a warm hand on my arm. “I…you’re my friend, and I want to tell you everything. Just not yet, if that makes sense? I need some time.” 

God, it would be so, so stupid of me to lean forward and kiss him right now. It’s all I want to do, really. But I can’t, because the hope glittering in Simon’s eyes — the hope that someday soon he’ll be able to trust me with this incredibly personal part of his life — is too much to throw away on a whim. I’ve only known him a month, but I know he’s worth the wait.


	3. Quit Your Job

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An incident at work brings Simon to an important realization.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **CW:** Scene involving homophobia. If you want to skip, it starts when Baz walks up to Simon’s work vehicle.

“Baz, have you seen my denim jacket?” Simon shouts from the kitchen. I’m still 100% asleep, mind you, so _of fucking course_ I haven’t seen his jacket.

_“Hngh,” _I reply with as much force as I can muster. I was awake into the wee hours of the morning working on a paper, and I don’t have class until half one today. Simon, on the other hand, has to be at work for 8:00, and now that it’s September, it’s cold enough outside that he wants to wear something a little more than a t-shirt. Thus, he’s searching for his jacket.__

__“Sorry, what was that?” he asks, cracking the door open and poking his head into my room. We can pretend I’ve got more than a pair of briefs on. I don’t, but it’s alright to pretend._ _

__“No, I haven’t the foggiest as to where you’ve left your jacket,” I tell him, supremely annoyed with his decision to say more words to me. My voice is muffled by the pillow covering my face, but I hope it doesn’t disguise the ire I’m feeling towards him right now. “Now, if you would kindly fuck off—”_ _

__“There it is!” he says, stomping into my room, his heavy steel-toed work boots clunking against the hardwood. “Thanks, mate, sorry to wake you up.”_ _

__When I hear metal buttons scrape against the desk chair, I remember with unfortunate clarity that I borrowed his jacket just yesterday on my way out the door. I was in a hurry to make it to the tube on time, and I was halfway out the door when I realized how cool it was. With my own jacket stowed in my bedroom cupboard on the other side of the flat, I decided that as a last resort, I’d pinch Simon’s and beg forgiveness later. And then the entire way to uni, I had my nose tucked into the collar of the jacket, because it smelled exactly like Simon — a bit smoky because of the blokes he works around, a touch sweaty, with a hint of grass clippings, and rounded off with whatever cologne he wears. It must have been given to him as a gift, because knowing him, he’d have chosen some rubbish from the discount bin._ _

__“Sorry,” I groan apathetically, but he’s already left. I hear him whistling as he descends the staircase outside my window. A moment later, the door of his work truck slams, and his coworker guns it, shooting off down the street in what I imagine is a nasty cloud of dark smog. Some bloke on Simon’s crew picks him every morning and drops him off at the end of the day so he won’t have to take the tube across town. The city pays for the diesel, and he gets extra time to do what he likes after work. It would be a good deal, if his coworkers weren’t a bunch of knobheads (and that’s putting it politely)._ _

__Simon comes home covered in sweat and grime and immediately hops into the shower at the end of the workday. He leaves his muddy boots by the door, but tends to strip just outside the bathroom, because the laundry hamper sits right outside the door. This means that on many, many occasions, I’ve seen his naked arse. And I’m not _really_ complaining; it’s quite a nice arse, and tends to be the only bit of him that isn’t covered in soil or tree sap. Anyways… _ _

__I fall back asleep for a few hours, and wake up again around lunchtime. Simon’s left his lunch in the fridge again, but there’s not much I can do about that. I heat up some leftover pasta from last night’s dinner, shovel it down quickly because no one’s around to watch me eat, and get ready for the day._ _

__As I grab my backpack, check to make sure I’ve got my Oyster card, and slip into my boots, I notice Simon’s leather jacket hanging in the coat cupboard. Glancing down at my outfit, I consider the fact that a leather jacket might look quite nice with this. My lecture is only two hours long, and I’d be home before Simon gets back from work anyway…would it be so wrong of me to borrow it for one afternoon if he’ll never know?_ _

__My time on the tube is spent the exact same way as yesterday, with a podcast playing in my ears, and my nose buried in the collar of Simon’s jacket._ _

__* * * * *_ _

__My lecture wasn’t particularly interesting. My father insisted I take an economics course, because I’ve somehow got him convinced that I’m studying business instead of English literature, and so long as I show him a decent grade in the one course he knows about, I can get away with the rest of it. I’m walking along with my econ textbook under one arm, and my backpack hanging off the other shoulder when I hear someone call my name._ _

__“Baz!” Simon’s voice rings out from across the road. I search for the source, only to find that Simon is in his work truck with a coworker, who I can tell from here is exactly the kind of person I don’t want to spend any meaningful amount of time chatting with. I wave to acknowledge Simon, and see the exact moment he realizes that I’m wearing his jacket. His eyes narrow as his brain processes the visual information it’s been presented with, and then his eyebrows rise with interest when._ _

__“Hello, Snow,” I greet him, sidling up alongside the truck, which is parked right up against the kerb. They must have been working somewhere near the university if they’re parked here for afternoon tea. _Please don’t ask about the jacket in front of this man,_ I beg in my mind, but of course Simon can’t help himself. _ _

__“That’s a nice jacket,” he says, grinning from ear to ear. Cheeky bastard. “Looks good on you.”_ _

__“Er, thanks,” I murmur, inspecting my shoelaces. “It’s, um…”_ _

__“I know,” he laughs, reaching out and fiddling with the collar just to make me blush. His coworker watches with mixed interest, but glances away in abject disgust once he’s had a good look at me: eyeliner, mascara, hair done up in a bun._ _

__“This your girlfriend, Snow?” He inquires, as if he hadn’t heard me speak in a voice even lower than his. Simon’s fingers freeze at my collar, and he glances back over his shoulder at the man in the driver’s seat._ _

__“Sorry, what was that, Joe?” he asks, daring the man to repeat himself. With what I know about Simon’s fist-fighting history, I wouldn’t recommend it. Pity we can’t make other people’s choices for them._ _

__“Didn’t realize you were a fucking poof,” Joe says, wrinkling his nose in displeasure._ _

__“Is that a problem?” Simon asks through clenched teeth, gripping the door so hard his knuckles go white. I hold my breath, genuinely concerned for this Joe fellow’s health. Well, more concerned for Simon’s job, and his criminal record, really; Joe can go fuck himself._ _

__“Simon, I should be off,” I murmur, taking a step back from the truck, but Simon holds fast to my (his) jacket collar, keeping me from stumbling into oncoming traffic. His coworker is a proper arsehole for sure, but I don’t want Simon to feel like he has to defend me. I know who I am, and I’m not about to let some some bigoted wankstain make me feel bad for it._ _

__“S’long as you don’t act like a queer around me, it’s fine,” Joe sneers. It’s the last straw for Simon. Before he can throw a punch and lose his job, I grab for the hand at my collar, and Simon stills. He whips his head towards me and meets my gaze, his blue eyes blazing with fury. Simon is chivalrous, a true gentleman even in his ripped work trousers, and he wants to do right by me. I implore him gently to stand down._ _

__”Please don’t,” I whisper just loud enough for him to hear. “He’s not worth it.” It’s silent for what feels like an eternity. And then,_ _

__“I think I’ll take the tube home,” Simon says coldly, reaching into the backseat for his work bag. Joe flinches and throws his hands up in front of his face, thinking Simon might hit him. “As if,” he snarls, letting go of me just long enough to tear open the door of the truck and step down onto the pavement. He slams the door shut and stares through the open window, steely-eyed and defiant, at Joe. “You’re not worth it,” he growls, repeating my words, before throwing a protective arm round my shoulder and steering us off in the direction of the nearest tube station._ _

__He doesn’t let go of me until we arrive home, until we’re in the safety of our flat. As soon as the door clicks shut behind us, Simon slumps against me and bursts into tears._ _

__* * * * *_ _

__Simon came home from work today in even more of a state than he did yesterday. He kicked his boots off, threw his bag down, and proceeded to put his fist through his bedroom door, which turned out to be of a cheap, hollow core design. I didn’t see him do it, because I’ve been away at an evening class, but I _have_ just walked in the door to find his boots halfway across the flat, his bag upside down on the floor, and him taking the damaged door off its hinges so he can replace it with the new door he’s gone out and purchased from B&Q instead of admitting to our landlord that he’s wrecked the original in a fit of rage at his boss. _ _

__“Dare I ask?” I inquire, peeking around the corner in a poor attempt to humour him._ _

__“I quit my job,” he replies sullenly, continuing to fiddle with the door._ _

__“You…quit your job?” I repeat, nodding slowly. “Alright. Perhaps we should sit down and have a chat about that? The door can probably wait a few minutes. I’ll put the kettle on.”_ _

__Simon Snow is, if nothing else, a reasonable man. Once I’ve shown him the pack of tea biscuits I bought on the way home to replace the entire package he inhaled last yesterday, he abandons the door for some later hour and collapses on the sofa._ _

__“I went in to speak with my boss this morning about what happened with Joe yesterday,” he says once I’ve placed a plate with a reasonable serving of biscuits on the coffee table in front of him, “And he basically told me that I must have just heard him wrong. What a load of bollocks.”_ _

__Simon has had plenty to say about his boss before now. David, his department head, is about “as useless as a marzipan dildo”, in the words of the brilliant Malcolm Tucker._ _

__“How does one hear the phrase, _“as long as you don’t act like a queer around me, it’s fine,”_ and think you just _misheard_?” I demand, quoting Simon’s lovely coworker. _ _

__“Exactly. So I tried to explain the situation, and he brushed me off, said it isn’t his job to deal with “interpersonal issues”,” Simon huffs._ _

__“I completely hear what you’re saying,” I assure him, taking a seat on the sofa beside him. “And I really appreciate you standing up for me the way you did. It means a lot to me, Simon. But…I don’t want you to give up a job you really enjoy just because one of your coworkers was a twat to me.”_ _

__Simon stares at me._ _

__“Baz, he wasn’t just talking about _you,_ ” he says, his eyebrows knitting together as he frowns. “He was talking about both of us.” _ _

__“But you’re not…” I pause, drinking in Simon’s injured expression. Ten seconds pass, and then it clicks. “You are. Wait, you _are_?!” _ _

__“Well, not gay,” he corrects me with a shrug. “But something. I like blokes. Er, one bloke.” Simon smiles hopefully and sets a hand on my knee. “I really, really like one bloke, and I’m not comfortable or interested in working at a place that tolerates employees being hateful towards me, or…or the bloke I like.”_ _

__It’s me. Simon is talking about me. He’s got a hand on my knee, and he’s smiling at me like I hung the fucking moon. So I smile at him like he’s responsible for every star in the sky. My hand is on his shoulder, then on his neck, then in his hair. I'm holding on for dear life because I never want to let him go.__

 _ _His mouth is warm and sweet, and tastes like tea biscuits._ _

__Every homophobe in London can sod right off — Simon Snow is kissing me._ _

__* * * * *_ _

____**How to…Come Out**  
255,390 views • September 30, 2020  
**how-to-simon-snow** || 158.0K subscribers 

_“Hey folx, Simon here. Today’s video is a little different than usual, because as you might have been able to tell from the title, I’ve got something personal to share._

_”Something happened at work last week that really shook me to my core, and made it impossible for me to sit around and be quiet about who I am. I’m not going to go into details for privacy reasons, but let’s just say that homophobia is alive and well here in London._

_“So here goes nothing: I’m queer. I know there are a ton of different labels out there, and I’ve learned that it’s okay to be flexible with the terms you use to refer to your sexual orientation. ‘Queer’ is the one that fits me best right now, and if that changes sometime in the future, that’s okay._

_“This might alienate some of my viewers; I know that. You can choose to unsubscribe, and you can choose to write hateful comments, but I don’t need that kind of negativity in my life now or ever, so don’t expect me to respond or get into online arguments about this. I know who my real friends are, and they love me for exactly who I am._

_“To those of you who came here for advice on how to come out to someone you care about, whether that’s your parents, your friends, a significant other — there’s no one-size fits all answer. You can share that part of your life with everyone, or with no one at all. It’s no one’s business but your own. Do what feels right, and know that the right people will love you no matter what.”_


	4. Meet the Parents (Pt. 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After hanging out with Simon's chosen family, Baz decides to brave his father's wrath and bring Simon home to meet his family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had to split the chapter because it was getting ridiculously long. Next chapter up soon! <3

**Baz**

“So, how would you feel about doing a movie night with my friends this weekend?” Simon asks through a mouthful of pad thai, noodles dangling precariously from his mouth. Watching him eat is like seeing a terrible car wreck on the motorway; it’s horrific, but I just can’t look away. 

“That sounds…fine,” I answer, raising an eyebrow. “Is everything alright?” His voice was hesitant, which makes _me_ hesitant. I’ve met Penny a few times, but I suppose this time I’m not just Simon’s roommate — I’m also his boyfriend (of about a month). My heart thrills just thinking the word ‘boyfriend’. I’ve never been anyone’s boyfriend before now. 

“Well, here’s the thing,” Simon sighs, setting his takeaway box aside for a moment. He even sets his chopsticks aside appropriately like I taught him to do, instead of stabbing them right into the centre of his food and leaving them standing upright. I know we’re just in our flat, but I still think proper chopstick etiquette should be practiced in all settings. Yes, I know that probably makes me sound like a twat; Simon’s told me so on multiple occasions. 

“Penny and Shep will be there, because it’s at their flat,” he says, “And Agatha is in town, so she’s been invited as well.” 

Agatha, the ex-girlfriend I’ve heard so little about. Really, I don’t think I knew much more than her name, and that she’d moved across the pond for university. 

“Alright, so it’ll be the five of us,” I accept easily. “You sound nervous, or worried. What’s on your mind, Snow?” I rest my arm over the back of the sofa, which Simon takes as an invitation to curl up against my chest. He’s a bloody furnace, but I tend to run cold, so his warmth is most welcome. His golden-bronze curls tickle my face when I rest my chin atop his head. 

“It’s just that, er…well, I don’t have parents or siblings,” he reminds me, “So Penny, Shep, and Aggie are all I’ve got.” 

“You’re taking me to meet your family, and you want to make sure I don’t feel like it’s too soon,” I guess correctly. When he nods, I press a kiss to the top of his head and nuzzle my face into his hair. The flowery fragrance of his shampoo mixes with the savoury scent of pad thai, yet it isn’t overwhelming. It just smells like home. “It’s not too soon,” I assure him. 

“So, if it’s not too soon for you to meet my family…” he trails off. 

“Ah. So that’s what this is really about,” I hum knowingly. “You want to meet the Grimms.” 

“Don’t make them sound so ominous,” he chastises, shifting around so he’s looking right up at me. I bend forward to press a kiss to his delightfully warm, pink mouth. “If they’re anything like you—” 

“They’re not,” I say quickly. “We really aren’t much alike at all. My father is…” I pause, trying to come up with an appropriate description. “Very proper,” I decide on, “And often more focused on his work than on the family. My stepmother is kind; she’ll dote on you to the point that it’ll feel like too much after a while. And the children, well, they’ve all got their own quirks.” 

“Brilliant,” Simon grins, “So you’ll ring them up and ask when we can get together?” 

This is really important to him. He’s hinted at wanting to get to know my family once or twice, which I suppose I can understand, especially for Simon. He’s never had a mother or father figure in his life that he could trust, and all the children he’s ever been close to were yanked from his life every time he was moved to another care home. I just don’t know if my family can live up to what he wants or needs in a family. We’re…well, we’re a bit fucked up. 

“Yes, if it’s really this important, I can call Daphne and arrange for us to join them for dinner in the next week or two,” I acquiesce, brushing a hand along his forehead and shifting his hair back so I can see his freckled skin. This man’s skin is a map of constellations, and I’m enamoured with connecting the stars with my eyes, my lips, my fingers. Simon giggles at my concentrated frown and tugs me down by the collar of my shirt for another kiss. 

“Thank you,” he whispers against my lips. 

“I’ll do anything for you,” I reply, and I mean it. 

* * * * * 

_*Penny added Baz Pitch to the conversation*_  
_*Penny renamed the conversation "🥂 **OG Watford Three + SOs** 🍻”*_

**Penny:** Thanks again for coming to dinner last night, everyone! 

**Shep:** Glad I could be there! 

**Penny:** Not you, Shep. You live here. 😒 

**Baz:** Thank you for inviting us, Penny. The food was delicious. 

**Baz:** But I’m definitely choosing the wine next time 

**Simon:** Posh twat 

**Baz:** 😘 

**Agatha:** YES BAZ 🍷🍷🍷 

**Shep:** Hey, I did my best! 

**Penny:** Sorry, everyone. I should have don’t it myself 

**Simon:** i thought it was fine 

**Baz:** Yes, but you eat liquorice allsorts 

**Baz:** So I don’t think your opinion really counts, love 

**Simon:** SO DO YOU, ARSEHOLE 

**Baz:** Yes, but it’s different. I’m me, and you’re you. 

**Simon:** your the worst 

**Baz:** *you’re 

**Simon:** 🖕🏽

* * *  
**Agatha Wellbelove + Simon Snow**

**Agatha:** Si, I hope this isn’t inappropriate for me to say…but I think you’ve found a really great guy. Baz is clearly mad about you, and the two of you are the cutest thing I’ve ever seen 

**Simon:** aw thanks 😭😭😭 

**Agatha:** I know things have been awkward between us for a while with the way things ended, but I hope we can be friends again. 

**Simon:** of course! 

**Simon:** i think we both had things we needed to work out! wink wink 🌈🌈🌈 

**Agatha:** Yes, well, there’s something I should tell you, too… 

**Simon:** HAVE YOU GOT A GIRLFRIEND BACK IN AMERICA???? 👀 

**Agatha:** No, silly! 

**Agatha:** I’ve gone a lot of soul-searching, and I realized that the reason I always felt so *off* in our relationship is that I don’t really have romantic or sexual feelings for other people 

**Simon:** oh so your aro/ace? 

**Agatha:** Yep! 

**Simon:** that actually makes a lot of sense 

**Simon:** thanks for telling me, i know how tough it can be to come out, esp. to the people you care about 💚🖤🤍💜 

**Agatha:** Did you just abbreviate ‘especially’ because you weren’t sure you could spell it correctly 

**Simon:** …im taking back the hearts 

**Agatha:** sorryyyy 🤣 

**Agatha:** love you, Si 

**Simon:** you too xoxo 

* * * * * 

**Baz**

We haven’t even set foot into my parents’ house yet and already I’m a mess. Simon has a fresh bouquet in hand as a hostess gift for Daphne, because he’s the sort of person that excels in impressing mothers — charming, polite, and always hungry. Whether he’ll make a good impression on Father or not, we’ve yet to find out. 

“Baz, it’ll be fine,” he assures me, angling his chin up and pressing a kiss to my cheek. “Whatever happens, we’ll make it work, alright?” His arm is slung round my waist, holding me tight against his hip. “Just ring the doorbell, or we’ll be out here all night. I’m _not_ about to miss your stepmother’s fancy dinner, I’ll have you know.” 

It’s not that I don’t think my boyfriend is incredible — he is, truly. He’s kind and accepting and _good_ ; so much more than I deserve, really. And I adore everything about him, even the things I know would disgust me about any other person. Last week, I watched him spill a spoonful of soup on his trousers, wipe it with his thumb, then lick his thumb clean, and all I wanted was to kiss his clumsy, freckled face until I die. 

I’m just not certain I’m ready for my father to make underhanded comments about Simon not being good enough for me, especially not to Simon’s face. 

“I’m just gonna do it,” Simon says, realizing I’m not ringing the bell anytime soon. Even from outside, the creepy tone of the bell, reminiscent of Bach’s ‘Toccata and Fugue in D Minor’, is loud and clear. It has Simon giggling, which somehow puts me at ease. 

“Oh my god, Baz, I thought we were visiting Hampshire, not _Transylvania,_ ” he snorts, turning his face inwards to nuzzle at my neck. A half-day’s worth of stubble tickles my skin, which gets me laughing, too. He lets out a loud, dramatic hiss and pretends to sink his fangs into my neck just as Vera, my family’s nanny/housekeeper, opens the door. 

Well, fuck. 


	5. Meet the Parents (Pt. 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner with the Grimms gets worse before it gets better.

Simon jerks away from me, his cheeks flushing rosy red, and he sends himself into a violent coughing fit, perhaps hoping it will distract Vera from the innocent yet seemingly suggestive scene she’s just walked in on.

“Basil,” she greets me formally, though the twinkle in her eyes gives away her amusement. “Welcome home.” When she steps back and ushers us into the foyer, I catch her patting Simon’s back out of the corner of my eye. I’ve never known her to do this to anyone; she usually reserves her affections for the children.

Simon looks to me for direction as to whether he should keep his shoes on or not, carefully toeing off the brown leather brogues I loaned him as I do the same. He was insistent on letting me help decide what he should wear tonight, and while he’s not as fastidiously dressed as I am, he does look well put-together in beige trousers and a navy jumper, over top of a tucked-in blue shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. I opted for a silver-grey suit with a lavender shirt and tie, which immediately earned me the lovingly-bestowed title of “posh bastard”.

Moments later, we hear the pitter-patter of feet on the hardwood, and my youngest sisters come streaking down the hall into the foyer, eyes wide with delight at our arrival.

“Basil!” Acantha screeches, tossing herself into my arms as soon as she’s within my reach. Ophelia opts to ram herself into my legs, knocking me a bit off balance so that I’m listing from side to side, trying to remain upright and not take both girls down with me. Simon steadies me with a hand to the centre of my back, drawing both girls’ attention to his presence.

“Who are you?” Acantha inquires, cocking her head to one side, her eyes level with Simon’s.

“I’m Simon,” he says, grinning widely. “And you must be Acantha. Baz tells me that I can tell the difference between you girls by which sister has her ears pierced, and I see that _you_ have a very nice pair of star earrings.” He reaches out towards her and taps a finger to the stud in her right ear, which has her positively beaming.

Ophelia hides behind my legs, much more shy and cautious than Acantha, but Simon still manages to win her over by kneeling down and playing hide-and-seek with her. His hands rest firmly on my thighs, and he darts his head from side to side, eliciting peals of laughter from my typically reserved sister with his antics.

By the time Daphne makes it out of the kitchen to greet us, Simon has a twin perched on each hip, one threading her fingers through his curls, and the other poking at the freckles across his cheeks in fascination. If Daphne is surprised by how quickly the twins have taken to him, she doesn’t show it. Instead, she smiles brightly and greets us with open arms, as I knew she would.

“Hello, love,” Daphne says, drawing me into a long, tight hug. She looks exactly the same as she did the last time I saw her, but for the new pearl necklace my father gave her for her birthday resting just below the hollow of her throat. “And this must be Simon! Welcome, dear.”

“Er, nice to meet you,” Simon says, shooting her a crooked grin. “I’d shake your hand, but my arms are a bit full at the moment.” He gives both girls a boost so they won’t slip any further down his hips, and they scream with delight at the sudden bouncing movement.

“Look, Mama,” Acantha crows, thrusting the bouquet Simon has entrusted her with into Daphne’s face. “Simon brought you flowers!”

“Oh, how very thoughtful of him,” my stepmother croons, graciously accepting the bouquet. “I’ll have them set out on the table right away so we can enjoy them as we eat. Thank you, Simon. Girls, why don’t you give Simon some room to breathe? Run upstairs and get dressed for dinner, alright?” As soon as he’s set them down, the girls race up the winding staircase towards their bedroom to get dolled up in what I’m certain will be matching dresses.

“You have a beautiful home, Mrs. Grimm,” Simon offers my stepmother, leaning forward to kiss her cheek now that he isn’t laden with children.

“Oh, I can’t take credit for most of it,” Daphne says ruefully, giving Simon’s face an affectionate pat, as mothers are wont to do to their sons’ adorable boyfriends. “I just married into the manor. It’s been in Basil’s mother’s family for generations, and I just added a thing or two to make it a bit more homey. But enough about the house — Mordelia has been talking about meeting you all day, and she’ll be terribly cross if we don’t introduce you straight away.”

We follow my stepmother towards the dining room, Simon hot on her heels in hopes that she’s had some hors d’oeuvres set out to snack on. Sensing his voracity, Daphne wags a slender finger and invites him into the kitchen under guise of a “tour”, allowing me a private minute with Mordelia.

When I reach the table, there are place cards set out with everyone’s names in my eldest sister’s careful script. Mordelia has snatched up the spot to Simon’s right, because, as Daphne mentioned, she’s been dying to meet him. I’ve received no fewer than twenty-seven texts in the last week asking about Simon, likely because I’ve never had another serious boyfriend, and she wants to know what sort of saint is willing to put up with me.

“Nice of you to finally show up,” she heckles, sliding down off the antique dining table she’s perched on the edge of as soon as we enter the room. Luckily for her, Daphne doesn’t catch her, because she’d be in for a verbal cowing if she had. No one works harder to preserve the integrity of my dead mother’s family heirlooms like Daphne. She wants to keep them nice for my sake, which I suppose is rather sweet of her.

“God forbid we arrive three minutes late,” I snort, glancing down at my watch. At the mention of ‘we’, Mordelia steps out into the hall in search of Simon, who has returned from his quick foray into the kitchen with a Yorkshire pudding in hand — or what’s left of it, at least.

“Oh, he’s even cuter than in his Instagram pictures!” Mordelia declares, setting her hands on her hips and turning to glare at me. “Why is it all the cute boys are gay?”

“Mordy,” I scold her, but Simon just roars with laughter.

“Nice to meet you, Mordelia,” he says, offering the hand he hasn’t just licked gravy off the side of. “Baz has told me so much about you.”

“Oh, has he?” She asks, arching an eyebrow. The girl is so much like me at times, it’s scary.

“Yeah, I’m always telling him how much of a brat you are,” I snark, and she sticks her tongue out at me. Simon allows her to push him across the room and into his seat, where she proceeds to ply him with a thousand questions, even though I’ve already answered many of them in my texts. She wants to hear it from the man himself, apparently.

The last few minutes before dinner go like this: Mordelia and Simon chatter away about what our flat is like, and what it’s like living with me; he hams it up just to make her laugh. The twins arrive together, dressed (as I suspected) in matching outfits. And little Magnus, just five years old, plants himself in my lap and natters away about his kindergarten class and how his teacher reminds him of Mother.

When the sound of Daphne knocking at Father’s study door echoes down the hall, everyone heads to their seats, so that when he and Daphne arrive together in the doorway, we’re all in our places. This is just the way of the things in the Grimm household; everyone sits down to dinner at the exact same time every evening, no matter what. Father sets aside his work, even during calving season, when half of England wants his attention because of his expertise on livestock management. He’s an important man, but family _always_ comes first.

Distracted by his mobile until he’s taken his seat, Father glances up and smiles at each of the children in turn, until his gaze falls on Simon and I at the opposite end of the table. He blinks in uncertainty, as if…

Fucking hell, Daphne didn’t tell him that we would be joining the family for dinner. She knew how nervous I was, and her solution was to _not tell Father we were showing up?!_

“Basil!” he croaks in surprise, pausing for a moment to clear his throat. “How nice of you to join us for dinner. And this must be…”

“Simon,” my brilliantly smooth boyfriend says, meeting my father’s gaze with a confident smile. “Thank you for having me over, Mr. Grimm. It’s good to meet you all.”

Offering only a polite nod in response, Father opens his calendar on his mobile, even going so far as to pull his reading glasses from the pocket of his jacket so he can make sure this uncertainty isn’t his fault. The man is religious with his phone calendar, so if this dinner isn’t on it, then he certainly wasn’t aware it was happening. He utters a soft _“hmm”_ before tucking his glasses away and glancing back up at us and pasting a smile on his face.

Before things can reach an even deeper level of awkwardness, Daphne and Vera arrive bearing food — Brussel sprouts, green beans, scalloped potatoes, roast beef, and a tray of Yorkshire puddings (minus the one Simon snatched ahead of time). Simon, to my great surprise, drapes his napkin over his lap without me having to prompt him. He chooses the correct utensils for each dish, and pays his compliments to Daphne on the food, all of which is also noticed by my Father’s watchful eyes.

“So, Simon,” Father drawls, dabbing at his mouth with his napkin, “Tell me about yourself.”

“Well, I’ve worked for the London Corporation for the last five years, sir,” Simon tells him, rubbing his socked foot against my ankle beneath the table in a gesture of comfort. He’s well aware of how tense I am. “I do general park upkeep as well as tree care — monitoring for disease and pests, determining if and when trees need to be taken down, that sort of thing.”

“Oh, that’s lovely, Simon,” Daphne says, smiling encouragingly from across the table.

“And you know Basil from…university?” He prompts, glancing between us. There’s a slight crease between his eyebrows, as if he’s missing some key piece of information. It’s setting me on edge, that forehead wrinkle. Something isn’t right here.

“University isn’t the only path to a successful career, Father,” I assert firmly, surprising Simon. He sets a hand overtop of mine and smiles.

“It’s alright,” he says gently, “It’s a fair question.” He turns his attention back to my father and answers, “Baz and I met when he answered my advert looking for a new flatmate in July. It’s just a few tube stations from the university, so it’s a fairly easy commute for him.”

My father’s confusion deepens, and I notice his eyes on Simon’s hand, which is still settled over mine. Daphne gives me a subtle wave, as if expecting me to say something. I really don’t like where this is going, because if my father’s expression means what I think it does, then he doesn’t know that Simon and I are together.

“And then we started dating after that,” Simon finishes, clearly having missed the fact that I’ve been staring daggers at my stepmother. He’s been so perceptive up until now that I didn’t even think to kick him under the table or something to keep him from delving into unknown territory.

“You’re Basil’s…boyfriend,” my father almost stumbles on the word. He doesn’t seem angry, just…extremely bewildered by this information, confirming my suspicion that he was completely unaware of my relationship status. Perhaps it was too much of me to assume that Daphne would tell him, or that he’d find out through social media somehow.

“Since September, yes,” Simon nods, his fork halfway to his mouth when he processes the implications of my father’s words. He turns to look at me, and faced with my stony expression, drops his fork, Brussel sprout and all, directly into his lap. The three younger children howl with laughter as he scrambles to retrieve his sprout, which is rolling across the dining room floor, I’m about to rip all my hair out of my head, and my father and Daphne have proceeded to start a hushed conversation at the other end of the table.

Mordelia comes to our rescue by pulling out her mobile with Simon’s latest video posting loaded and ready to go. I forgot I had told her about Simon’s channel, but of course she would remember that. She’s 13 and obsessed with the internet. Blessedly, Daphne doesn’t remind her of the 'no mobiles at the table’ rule.

“Father, you should see Simon’s YouTube channel,” she prompts, turning the screen towards him. “He’s got like, two hundred thousand followers. Isn’t that cool?”

“YouTube channel?” Father repeats, pausing his discussion with my stepmother. He’s a big fan of YouTube because he likes to stream clips of his favourite comedians, or videos about…I don’t know, tractors? He’s obviously very out of the loop about the whole boyfriend business, but YouTube he understands.

“Yeah, Simon runs a how-to channel where he teaches people how to do things that parents are meant to teach you,” Mordelia explains. “And he’s starting a new job next week, so this video is about how he’s going to be a life skills teacher at the secondary school down the road from his and Baz’s flat.”

“I thought you said you worked for the city?” Father inquires with a frown.

Oh, so _this_ is what he’s going to choose to take issue with? _I don’t think so._

“He quit because his boss and half his coworkers were a bunch of homophobic imbeciles!” I burst out angrily, finally having reached the end of my rope. “He tried to report his crewmate, who called us disgusting queers just for existing, and they refused to do anything about it.”

“Baz,” Simon murmurs, lifting my hand and pressing his lips to my knuckles. “It’s fine, he was just—”

“No, I need to say this,” I insist, locking eyes with the man at the far end of the table. “Father, please hear what I’m saying. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before, but I’m telling you now: Simon is my boyfriend. I moved into his flat at the beginning of August because it’s close to the university and I didn’t want to live alone. I wanted to tell you, but I was afraid that you would be angry, and that you would hate Simon for—well, for being a man, and living in Shepherd’s Bush and working for the city, instead of being…like us.”

“Oh,” my father

“Perhaps we could discuss this after dinner,” Daphne suggests with a tight smile. I love her dearly, but she and I _definitely_ need to have a chat.

“Great idea,” Simon agrees, squeezing my hand. He’s looking a bit green around the gills at the moment, and I’m sure I don’t fare much better. My heart has been racing almost the entire time we’ve been sat down for dinner. Father certainly isn’t doing anything to help that, his expression contemplative as he cuts up the slice of roast on his place.

* * * * *

When dessert is finished, my father requests to see me in his study. Simon stands up to join me, but I decide that this is a discussion Father and I need to have alone. Instead, Mordelia volunteers to give Simon a tour of the house. She’s enamoured with him already, I can see the hearts in her eyes. I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that she’s invented names for our future children in her head.

When Father has retreated to his study, Simon pulls me aside in the hall for a long, sweet kiss. “Just in case it doesn’t go well,” he says, “I want you to know how much I care about you.” What a sap. My eyes _definitely_ aren’t wet.

Once I’ve entered the study and pushed the heavy oak door shut, I seat myself in one of the leather armchairs opposite my father’s desk. Across from me, he’s set out two crystal glasses and is in the process of pouring a finger of bourbon for each of us. He’s a bit heavy-handed tonight, so it ends up being closer to two.

“Basil, I owe you an apology,” he says finally, inhaling sharply at the sting of bourbon in his throat. “I’ve…done and said somethings that have made you doubt me. If you felt the need to hide Simon from me, that means I’ve created an environment in which you feel unsafe. And that—” his voice breaks, and he has to set his glass down, his hands are shaking so badly. “That is something I’ve never wanted. You’re my son, and the last thing in this world I want is for you to think that my love for you is conditional.”

My father, who is the most stoic man I’ve ever met, is sitting in front of me, chin wobbling precariously like he could burst into tears at any moment. Fantastic, I can totally sit here and not react emotionally to this. Just another normal day in the Grimm household. It gets even worse when he stands up from behind his desk and comes round to my side to hug me. HUG me. _Who the fuck is this man, and what has he done with Malcolm Grimm?_

Though we are of similar stature, both tall and slender, I’ve got an inch on him, probably because gravity is compressing his spine his old age (an inside joke of ours; he’s only fifty-one). We do the awkward dance of determining whose arms go where, but in the end I loop mine around his neck like I did as a little boy.

And just like that, I’m sent back in time. I’m five years old again, clutching at him for dear life because Mother is gone, is never coming back, and all we have is each other. My shoulders begin to shake and his arms tighten around me, keep me from crumpling to the ground.

“Dad, I’m sorry,” I choke out, probably getting saliva or snot on his silk waistcoat. Oh well; he can afford to have it dry cleaned. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner about Simon.”

“There’s nothing to forgive,” he soothes, patting my back awkwardly. There we go, that’s more like Malcolm Grimm. Awkward back pats are right up his alley, along with uncomfortable silences and avoiding eye contact at all costs. “Thank you for telling me now.”

After one of the longest minutes of both our lives, we clear our throats, wipe the wetness away from our cheeks with the handkerchiefs that materialize from his pocket, clear away any sign that an emotional exchange has occurred, and head back out to find the family. Good chat.

Mordelia is curled up on the sofa beside Simon in the family sitting room (not to be mistaken for the formal sitting room _or_ Daphne’s parlour, where she entertains her personal friends), and they’re watching YouTube videos, of course.

“Oh, I love these guys,” Simon enthuses, “They do slow motion videos of crazy stuff like explosions or shattering glass. It’s brilliant.” Father sets a hand on my shoulder and gives it a reassuring squeeze. He’d like to be introduced properly — a do-over, if you will.

“Mordelia, would you excuse Simon for a few minutes? Father and I would like to have some time with him,” I inform her. Though she’s disappointed to have her new BFF ripped away so suddenly, she takes her leave without stomping, rolling her eyes, or sighing — a real win for a girl her age.

Father takes a seat on the ottoman in front of the sofa, and I seat myself beside Simon, who snatches up my hand and investigates my face for signs of distress. Finding none, he turns to my father with the same bright, genuine smile he greeted him with earlier and sticks out his right hand.

“Mr. Grimm, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” he says in earnest.

“And you, Simon,” Father nods, grasping his hand firmly.

The two of them fall into easy conversation about this and that, finding common ground on occasion. Apparently Simon spent some time with a farming family as a child in care, which my father finds fascinating. I share a bit about our living situation, and as expected, Father is sceptical of the neighbourhood and the condition of the flat, but Simon manages to assuage his concerns by extolling the quality of the building’s security system, and the special locks he’s installed on our door. He even extends a dinner invite so Father can see it for himself.

An hour later, Simon glances down at his watch and nudges my knee with his. We’ve still got to drive an hour and a bit back to the city tonight, and Simon has his first training session tomorrow in preparation for his new job, so he has to be up early.

“Well, I suppose you’ll need to be on your way,” Father says gruffly. “Your mother and I are so glad the two of you were able to join us for dinner, and we hope you’ll be able to visit again soon. Simon, I look forward to hearing about this teaching job of yours.”

“Thank you, sir,” Simon smiles, shaking his hand once more.

“Oh, none of that,” Father insists. “Call me Malcolm.”

* * * * *

We debrief the evening on the drive home, now that we’re able to laugh about it all: the look of utter confusion on Father’s face, the runaway Brussel sprout, the fact that I shouted at the dinner table. I’ve never had someone to talk to about my family before besides my aunt, but she’s part of the insanity, so she doesn’t really count.

“I’m glad we went,” Simon tells me, setting a hand on my thigh and giving it a gentle squeeze. “The Grimms have their quirks, like every family, but I really like them all, especially Mordelia.”

“Be careful what you say,” I tease. “Pretty soon, she’ll have you wrapped around her finger, and you’ll be willing to do anything she asks, even let her skip class so you can take her for the ice cream cone she’s been begging for all week.

“Sounds like you know from experience,” Simon chuckles. “They’re good kids, all of them. I’d like to get to know them better, get to know what it was like for you, being a kid in that big, creepy house.”

“It’s horrific,” I agree. “No child of mine will ever grow up in a place like that.”

“No?” Simon asks, glancing at me from the passenger’s seat. “You don’t want to live there someday, have the things your mum left you?” He’s been curiously silent on the subject of my mother. Daphne mentioned her once or twice, but other than that, Simon has really never heard about her. I tend to keep Natasha Pitch to myself, hoard the memories of her close to me like the dragon from the Hobbit and his treasure.

“My mother’s legacy lives in _me,_ not in a bunch of ugly old furniture,” I say, confident that this is the truth. “Perhaps there are a few things I’d want to keep, but…”

“But…” Simon presses.

“But the thing I want most is to spend my life with someone I love, and who loves me in return.”

“That sounds like a good life,” he smiles. “I’ll keep an eye out for you, let you know if I meet someone that would be a good fit.”

“Piss off,” I snort, swatting at his shoulder.

He catches my hand and holds onto it for the rest of the drive home, traces absentminded lines over my knuckles as he gazes out the widow. The warmth of his skin against mine is a silent promise, an unspoken certainty that we’re in this together every step of the way from here on out.

* * * * *

 **Q &A #4 - Meet My Boyfriend**  
302,459 views • November 27, 2020  
**how-to-simon-snow** || 266.2K subscribers

_“Hey folx, Simon Snow here. And today, I have a guest, as requested by all of you!”_

_“So my ‘coming out' video in September was definitely spurred on by the fact that I have someone special in my life. That someone is my flatmate, who also happens to be my boyfriend! *waves Baz over* So here he is! Thanks for being willing to come and answer some questions with me, Baz.”_

_“My apologies if I make this terribly awkward. I’ve never been in a Youtube video before, haha.” *Simon takes Baz’s hand and laces their fingers together, casually resting them on his knee*_

_“So here’s how this is going to work. We’ll take turns grabbing questions from this cup here, and then we can answer them together, alright?”_

_“Sure. You first.”_

_*Simon grabs a slip of paper from the cup and unfolds it.*_

_“This one’s for you, Baz. What is your favourite of my videos?”_

_*Baz’s eyes go wide in mock surprise.*_

_“Am I meant to be watching your videos? I already spend so much time looking at your face as it is!” *Simon rolls his eyes* “Only joking. Let’s see, my favourite video on your channel has to be…well, it has to be the fixing the sink one, because I was in it with you, though I wasn’t on camera. Just asking dumb questions in the background, really.”_

_“Hey now, we have a rule here that no question is a dumb question. We encourage asking questions, because if you don’t ask, you’ll never learn!”_

_“I suppose that’s true…”_

_“It is. The second rule is that I’m always right.”_

_“Was that a rule before today?” *Baz arches an eyebrow*_

_“Nope, just made it up now, and it only applies to you and me.”_

_“You’re incorrigible. Next question, and it’s my turn to choose.” *Baz waves his hand over the cup as if performing a magic trick before pulling out a paper* “Simon, how is your new job going? Are you enjoying teaching so far?”_

_“I love my job! I get to work with the people I created this channel for — teens who are trying to learn how to do the whole adulting thing, but maybe haven’t had an adult in their life to show them how.”_

_“And what sorts of things do you teach your students?”_

_“Well, I’ve finished my lesson planning for the rest of the year, but right now we’re in a unit on personal finances. So we’re doing a budgeting project and a grocery shopping field trip, which connects with the maths course most of them are taking. It’s a great group of students, and they’re really keen on learning.”_

_“Next question?”_

_“What do I like most about Simon? Oh, there are plenty of things I like about him. He’s very kind, first of all, to everyone he meets. Sometimes I can hardly pull him away from a conversation in a shop because he’s invested himself in someone’s story. He’s a hard worker, sometimes to his detriment. Getting him to put down his marking and come to bed is nearly impossible at times, because he wants his students to have their grades as soon as possible.”_

_“Aw, you think I’m a hard worker?”_

_“Hush, it’s my turn. And…I guess my other favourite thing is that he gives very good hugs. You know — strong arms, broad chest, all that.”_

_“So you think I’m fit, is what you’re saying.”_

_“I’m going to stop complimenting you if you’re just going to let it all go to your head, Snow.”_

_“Fat chance.”_

_*Simon leans in for a kiss, and though Baz hesitates for a moment (because they’re on camera), he eventually gives in.*_

_“I love you.”_

_“Simon…”_

_“What, did you want to keep it a secret?”_

_“Never. I love you, too, you numpty.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end! Thank you so much for reading. <3


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